


Constellations

by graphesthesia



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Blood, F/M, Gore, Implied Cannibalism, OF, Suicide, an au, so ayun, tabi po, this is actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 11:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14283480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graphesthesia/pseuds/graphesthesia
Summary: that soulmate au nobody asked for





	Constellations

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in dedication to the Tabi Po series written by Sir Mervin Malonzo. (finished writing in 30 minutes in between periodical exams because priorities)

The human soul is made of little stars.

An infinite number of them stretching across vast galaxies, filling the universe of the human body with pinpricks of light. Each shines brightly maybe some brighter than most or worse dimmer, but a scattering of stars is nothing, not until a constellation is formed.

That is when the true beauty of the soul manifests itself—two sets of stars, perfectly conjoined in a blazing image of strength and beauty and passion, the everlasting nature of two souls made into one. Nothing can touch them but the other, and only when every last star is gone can the constellation die out.

It is the gift of God, they say. Humans have overcome other species, the earth, each other, and even their own nature, but one thing that will always bring them down is loneliness. God arranged this, to allow everyone to live and die with the very person who will understand them the most. It is a blessing.

(No one mentions how the stars can darken, how half of them can turn on the other, smothering its own life, on purpose or not; how the remaining constellation will become an entirely new, untouchable one of its own. Invincible. Alone.  No one thinks of these old souls, forever young, watching the rest of the world through eyes weathered by ages of solitude, and no one sees the eternal regret that inevitably haunts those faces.)

.

.

.

If the human soul if made of stars, then he must not be human.

_If the human soul is made of stars, then he must not be human.  Because he is not human. Born from a tree and having no navel._

(He does not know what he is made of but he feeds himself lies that he is.)

He is merely lucky, and a good fighter, and he will never know anything other than the constant cycle of blood and pain and death—and he believes this fully, devouring every animal in his line of sight or after Tasyo and Isabel finds him, the human they tear apart once a week. Until he sees her with a blade and rosary rushing towards the priest that disgusted him.

She is nothing special, a girl with dark hair and fierce eyes, not the prettiest face he has seen—but suddenly his world is a whole lot smaller and she is at the center of it.

Once she stabbed him, he is surprised and curious at her impassive face. And the world, the world is now black and white and she is screaming color. He does not tear his gaze away and focuses on her. He sees nothing but her face. Trying to control the dull pounding in his chest.

_“Kill her,”_ he can hear Tasyo whisper in his ear. _“A swift bite to the neck in the dark—no one will know, and you will never have to fear death again.”_

_“Do it Elias,”_ Sabel whispers in the other. _“Or we will eat her instead.”_

_“Shut the fuck up,”_ he tells both voices,

.

.

.

“What’s your name?”

“Salome.”

(He has never lived by the rules and he sees no point in starting now, because he does not need another half of his soul; he doesn't want it. She must have it all already because he can only be empty.)

.

.

.

He does not stay with her, but every time he goes back to ~~their~~ , her hut that whose previous resident was the leper, he has grown accustomed to her existence, to her quiet bubbling anger and snarky quips and comforting presence, and while he tries to stay far away from the whole soulmates thing, he begins to accept and appreciate who she is.

A cup of ginger tea on the little makeshift table, and a wet towel. His eyes soften.

Someone with no more pretenses, someone who is angry. Someone who sees herself. Salome is Salome.

(He still isn't used to her hair though, brown and gold in some lights, black in others; her eyes, sparkling with a kaleidoscope of stars; her voice, words so soft that he can only imagine what his name must sound like. And not that stupid angel that comes out of her lips.)

.

.

.

She stands too close and he lets her, and only when he sees in her expression that she is about to kiss him does sense return.

"Salome—"

"You must feel it too," she says calmly, and with those few words, more follow, falling from her lips in a jumbled rush like they have been bottled up for too long. "I felt it the moment you asked my name, of how you decide not to eat me,—you must feel it too."

He can only hear her, and he can only see her —but Elias forces himself to think of what has kept him safe all these years, blood and pain and death, repeating themselves over and over in an endless mockery of life.

Her eyes, when she looks at him, are flecked with stars; he wants to read them on her lips, taste them on her tongue, see if they are the same ones he has always known—but he lifts his gaze to the wall past her instead. "Do you understand?"

She does, but she doesn't, and he silently implores her not to try again—but she is Salome stubborn to a fault, and of course she does not listen to his wordless plea. "Elias," she says slowly, trying out his name.

It sounds right in her voice, more than right; he squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks of that foolish young man who dares to follow her out here in the woods “You should have someone else." She should have him.

.

.

But he goes back to the moment that thin and gangly Father Salvi had raped her and smashed her head to the ground and as he waits for her to wake up it hits him that truly, for better or for worse, she is the one he is meant to die with. Everyone is born with someone in their future and whether she deserves it or not, he is hers.

And she is his.

He sits long into the night, and when at last her eyes flutter open, they dart to him—and go still. He licks his lips, knowing he should speak but there are too many things clamoring to leave his throat that he does not know where to begin, and she beats him to it.

“Did you save me because you are worried about death?"

It stings but the problem is he will live forever, but the comment is justified. "I meant it," he says carefully, trying to gather his thoughts, "when I said you should have someone else—you deserve better."

Her laugh turns into a rasping cough. "I don't want better. I want you."

He has no response to that; three simple words and suddenly the floodgates of his dull heart have been thrown wide open. He can feel the waters rushing through, dotted with stars, and he can see the picture the two of them are beginning to form. A picture across the night sky. Immortalized in stars.

He lays one hand by hers, and then brushes her fingers before taking her hand in his own. They fit together perfectly; despite the amount of blood she lost, her skin is still warm where he touches her. "I'm an idiot."

"You are," she agrees, but she squeezes his hand, and for the first time in his life he can feel the nonexistent stars in the soul he must have after all, reaching out for hers.

.

.

.

Part of him expects things to be different afterwards, but everything feels the same. And at times he smiles, not that manic or smug grin, but a real genuine smile.

(It is enough, it is so enough; it’s unbelievable how enough it is.)

 .

.

.

He started to bring a little dagger he found in the casa he used to live in. He brings it whenever they go killing of everyone at the top. Just in case. For his sake. For her sake, he catches a glimpse of the one she used to kill Damaso . For her sake. For his sake.

.

.

.

Tasyo leaves her open with her organs still intact but he doesn’t want  her to die, not yet, not yet.

She gestures to her arm, and he recognizes those marks, _‘no, it can’t be’_ he curses God. If he ever did existed. And when she looks at him with such intensity of the stars above them. He nods and understands what he has to do.

She cannot move so he lies down next to her, curling her fingers around the hilt of the knife. Now that the moment is here, he is oddly calm. After the battle with Tasyo, the forest is everything but peaceful, moonlight filtering through the gaps in the trees, the rich earthy aroma of the soil calming, and he thinks it isn't a bad place to die.

He presses her knife to his chest, letting the point dig in enough to nick his skin. He lets his own knife rest against her exposed heart, and the thought of pushing it in makes his own  constrict but he knows what he is meant to do; before they can be one.

She should have enough strength left for this one last task; they always do. "On three," he says.

Something sad shines in her eyes; she gives the barest hint of a nod.

"One."

He hears nothing but her voice, sees nothing but her face.

"Two."

It isn't fair, but nothing ever is—and if the stories are to be believed, it is the price humans pay for not being lonely.

"Three."

If he thinks about it, he won't be able to do it—so he doesn't think. His knife glides through her skin into her flesh, cutting easily through arteries and organs, spilling blood that slides through his fingers, staining his skin.

It is the moment he dies—but he does not feel any pain.

He pulls his blade away and drops it in horror; his skin is untouched. The light is fading fast in Salome's eyes, and her dagger lies a few feet away—she must have flung it as he stabbed her.

"Salome—"

He tries to push his own dagger, sticky with her blood, into her palms, but with sheer  force of will she curls her wrist away; as he watches, her fingers go slack and her eyes grow dim. No more specks of gold in her eyes. No more curve to her lips "I'm sorry, my angel," she whispers, but it might be his imagination; she does not seem to have any strength left to speak anymore. "I love you but… you...deserve better than this…"

Her eyes flicker shut, then still.

Something in him is numb and empty and cold; he isn't sure what it is anymore but he knows it must’ve been very important. He picks up her blade and tries to shove it into his chest with a violent thrust; it clatters against his skin and falls from his fingers.

He picks it up and tries again, then again, but already he can feel the stars of his soul rushing to cover the gaping loss in their constellation, from the loss of his other half, forming something completely different in the process; something unbreakable, invincible and eternal.

He has never been so alive, and he has never felt so dead.

He drops his knife, holds her dead body. And he consumes her as the flames threaten to engulf them.


End file.
